AMEETHYST

Ever seen those kids at weddings? The ones running around like they’ve been set loose after years of captivity. No sense of direction, no brakes, just pure chaos in tiny human form. One minute they’re near the stage, next minute they’re under someone’s chair, and before you know it, one of them is about to crash into panditji carrying pooja items like it’s some Olympic sport. And for a split second, you just stand there thinking, " Why would anyone willingly sign up for this? " Yeah. I did. I have that kid. Actually, I think mine is a slightly upgraded version. More stamina. Better talent. A natural instinct to create maximum chaos at the worst possible moment. Give him a bigger wedding, a larger hall, and he’ll probably evolve into something even more… memorable. What’s funny is, everyone today has advice. On marriage. On parenting. On “ choosing the right partner. ” On “ raising emotionally intelligent children. ” Suddenly, everyone’s speaking like they’ve cracked some secr...

Nobody is stupid. They all know what they’re doing. And they keep doing it anyway. Only kids are innocent. At least that’s what I used to believe. Now even they know too much. Sometimes more than we do. Sometimes I look at them and wonder when the hell the world got this sharp. See, the problem is, we expect people to show up for us the way we show up for them. Dumb theory. We change for people and secretly hope they’ll change for us. We play fair and expect them to drop their weapons too. It sounds noble until life punches you in the mouth and laughs while you bleed. Sometimes I laugh at myself for believing all that shit. Proper belly laugh. The kind that hurts. Sometimes I feel ashamed. Like how the fuck did I stay this naive for so long? And then I switch. Yeah, I switch like a merciless Gemini. One minute I’m the considerate, sweet, lovable chunky teddy bear everyone leans on. Next minute I’m a rage monster. A lunatic. A fat psycho. Blasphemous, ungrateful, irritating,...

When someone asks, “ What's your story? ” I pause. It’s such a normal question. People ask it like they’re asking for the time. And every time, I pause a little longer than I should. Not because I don’t have an answer. But because I don’t know which one to give. Do I tell you who I used to be? The version that tried really hard to make sense to everyone? Or the one I am now… who doesn’t try as much? There was a time I made it easy for people. I would explain myself. Properly. Completely. Almost like I owed them clarity. I’d pick the better parts, arrange them nicely, remove the confusing bits. Make myself easier to understand. Easier to accept.  And it worked. People got me. Or at least, they thought they did. But I always walked away from those conversations feeling a little… edited. Like something important didn’t make the cut. So I tried something else. I stopped filtering as much. Started speaking the way I actually think. A little messy. Sometimes contradictory. No...

I maybe ten or eleven years old. I was playing cricket in the lane outside the house. My neighbour friend got out early and it was my turn to bat. For some reason, that made him angry. Really angry. Instead of bowling properly, he started throwing the ball straight at me. Not at the stumps. At me. The first one hit my arm. Then my leg. Then my back. He kept saying I wasn’t out yet, so I had to keep playing. But this wasn’t cricket anymore. He was just throwing the ball as hard as he could. I didn’t shout. I didn’t swing the bat at him. I didn't go full IPL-Pollard on him. I just stood there and kept getting hit. Looking back now, that part bothers me the most. I keep thinking I should have done something. Shouted. Hit back. Walked away. But I didn’t. I stood there like a statue. Finally, I threw the bat on the ground and ran home. I remember falling face down on the bed and crying into the pillow. My sister saw the bruises on my face and body. She didn’t say anything. My mother wen...

There was a time in my life when my biggest hobby, apart from breathing and writing poems, was hating one specific uncle . Not casually disliking. Not mild irritation. No. This was full-blown, emotionally invested hatred.  And why? Because my mother said so.  Now, in every Indian household, there’s an unspoken rule: If your mother dislikes someone, you don’t ask questions. You pick up a metaphorical sword and say, “ Who are we attacking today? ” So I did.  I was told this uncle had abandoned his parents in their time of need. That his wife had “ brainwashed ” him. That he had chosen distance over duty. Naturally, 12-year-old me, who couldn’t even choose between Frooti and Maaza without guidance, decided I had enough emotional intelligence to judge a grown man’s life decisions.  I was furious. But I didn’t stop at anger. Oh no. I escalated. I started sending him SMSes. Not normal messages. Not “Hi uncle, how are you? ” No. I sent him philosophical guilt bombs copy-pas...

I sometimes feel that when you are born second in an Indian family, life simply signs you up for something you never applied for. A lifetime membership of the Second-Hand Department . You don't get a welcome kit or an instruction manual. Just an unspoken understanding that whatever reaches you has probably already completed one full life cycle with someone else. That was my childhood. Almost everything around me had a previous owner. Mostly my sister. She was the firstborn, the golden child, the original edition. The one that got the excitement, the attention, the fresh purchases. By the time I arrived, my parents looked like people who had already run the full marathon and were now taking a nap. I don’t say this with anger anymore. It comes out more like a tired smile mixed with a tiny pinch somewhere inside the chest. My sister got the real assets. Brand new clothes. Brand new things. Brand new emotional enthusiasm from the parents. I got what the house lovingly described as ...

There are some stories men keep locked away. Not in diaries. Not in some VIP suitcase, but in barbershops. Old ones especially. The kind that existed before glass doors and fancy English names like “ Unisex Studio ” or “ Lounge ”. I’m talking about the real ones. Bargad ke ped ke neeche baitha hua naayi type. One cracked mirror. One chair that squeaked like it had arthritis. And that white cloth, which has touched more necks than a doctor’s stethoscope. As kids, we had zero say in what happened to our hair. You’d sit on that tall chair like a prisoner waiting for judgment while your mother delivered the final verdict. “ Iske baal chhote karna. ” That sentence decided your future. You could dream about cool hairstyles all you wanted. Maybe you saw a hero in a movie with a stylish mushroom cut and thought today is the day. For five beautiful minutes the barber would start shaping that mushroom. And then your parent would suddenly notice. “ Arey arey… yeh kya hai? Aur chhota karo. ” A...

Lately I’ve been thinking. Yes, I know. Whenever a man says that, someone should probably hide the remote and the car keys. But this one kept bothering me. Women. And the amount of pain they quietly sign up for just by existing. Not the poetry kind of pain. Not the “ she looked out the window while it rained ” type. I mean the real stuff. The body-hurting, mood-twisting, energy-draining kind that shows up every month like a landlord who never forgets rent. And I sit there wondering. Why is this part of the deal? Because if you look around, women are basically issued a survival kit the day they’re born. Hormones. Expectations. Emotional labor. Period cramps that feel like the body is folding itself in half. And life just pats them on the head and says, “ You’ll manage. You’re strong. ” Strong is such a convenient word. Mostly used by people who don’t have to be. Then comes the modern world with its solutions. Thousands of apps. Fitness apps. Meditation apps. Hormone apps. Ovulation trac...

Dear Doraemon and Shinchan fans, First of all… relax. Don’t get angry. Or get angry. Little bit is fine. But I have to say this. You people will never understand the madness we had. You had Doraemon taking out gadgets from his pocket and Shinchan dancing like a weird uncle at weddings. Very cute. Very nice. But we had Small Wonder . Every single day at 5 PM sharp , school ended and we ran home like Olympic athletes who forgot their medals at home. We threw our school bags and never looked if they even landed on the chair or someone's head. We left shoes somewhere near the door, or did we wear them inside, we never knew. Uniform was still on. Our hair looked like we fought three pigeons on the way... All this, because Small Wonder had started. And there was Harriet . OH. MY. GOD. Even my tiny 7-year-old heart had anger issues because of that girl. Every episode I sat there like a small judge waiting for justice. “ Today she will get it. Today, someone will finally sh...

Alright. This is me talking. No filters. No diplomacy. This attitude I am talking about... It's not the ego one. Not the fake swag one. I’m talking about the real one. The one where you just… let it go. After I turned forty, something changed in me. I didn’t suddenly become calm. I became clear. There’s a difference. I stopped reacting to everything. Not because I can’t fight. Trust me, I can. I’ve fought most of my life. I just realised not every battle deserves my blood pressure and a good night's sleep. And no, I didn’t always have this attitude. I was the exact opposite. I was the guy who fought to earn presence. I wanted my parents at my milestones. I wanted them there when it mattered. I didn’t want money. I didn’t want gifts. Just presence. I fought hard for that. And when they categorically chose not to show up for my special moments, repeatedly, I got the message. COVID just made everything obvious. When the world went virtual, masks fell off. I saw who people really w...

That’s the opening line of my life story right now. I don’t have many close friends. Very few people. Can count on one hand and still have fingers left for snacks. Only they have seen the real me. The unfiltered version. The one with mood swings, random jokes, deep thoughts at midnight. Somehow, they never judged me. Either they are angels or they are too tired to react anymore. Problems are many. Full buffet. Each problem asking for its own dramatic story. But funny thing is, my solutions are always the same. A cat. A trip. A movie. Or one quiet night with my closest bunch. Drinks optional. Overthinking compulsory. These four things are like my emotional first aid kit. Apply wherever pain is happening. I didn’t include my wife and my son in that solution list. Not because they are not important. They are default settings. Factory-installed. They come with every update of my life. They are part of me. Rest all is add-ons. But weirdly, my wife is not where the cat is. My son is not w...